


tessellate

by freloux



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alien Sex, Drinking & Talking, F/M, Nipple Play, Sexual Tension, Wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-12 00:41:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5647636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freloux/pseuds/freloux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So. They're just people who live together and touch each other sometimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tessellate

Her room on the TARDIS is not like the room she had in her flat. Rather, it's an approximation of what he - what the ship - thinks she would like. Three mirrors on the dresser. She's not sure if that's meant to be comforting or an insult. With him it can sometimes be both.

For the first week or so after she moved in, she half-expected to open her door onto a black void. Vaguely unsettling, to think that when they're not travelling, or she's at Coal Hill, they're just...floating through space. She's reassured by the constant white noise hum of the TARDIS engine. And his presence, somewhere in the distance. Is he working? She can hear music sometimes.

The Doctor doesn't sleep, she knows that much.

In the meanwhile, he still drops her off at her job, and they still go on adventures together. Wednesdays becomes every other day becomes every day, as soon as she's home.

Home, there's an odd thought. Open the TARDIS doors and slog her stuff on the floor and run towards the Doctor to give him a hug, tell him about her day. _Yes, that's gum in my hair - you should see the other guy._ It's a nice routine. Less lonely, to have this to come back to instead of an empty flat.

It's really not that much different than what they did before. It's just that now they're...in the same space. There's an extra weight to things that she can't quite define. She can feel his eyes at her back when she says goodnight and heads off to her room.

***

Today is particularly terrible. Difficult students bouncing off the walls. The ringleader roping everyone else in until there's utter chaos. It's worse than that time she and the Doctor were on that sand planet and had to deal with the crabs or the lobsters or the - Clara can't really remember now, she's just seeing red. Just so eager to get _home_ and be done with this.

A cave with troglobites makes for a remarkably effective stress cure. Especially with the Doctor at her side, nattering on about the different species they're seeing. "Oh, and this one, Clara, is particularly rare." She smirks at him and he recedes into himself. Just like the bright purple troglobite she just made the mistake of poking with a stray elbow.

That night, though, she's surprised at how she can't sleep. Clara supposes that she's still too wired from the day. Voice hoarse from yelling at her students, even the nice ones who were really just at the wrong place at the wrong time. And tomorrow she has to face it all again. She curls up, thumps her pillow, counts to twenty and back down again. It's no use.

Music - something quiet, vaguely tuneful - drifts down the hallways. It's similar to what she's heard before. Clara lies in bed, listening, until on impulse she decides to find the source of the noise. She's eventually led to a side room with miscellaneous amps, speakers, and guitars strewn about. And the Doctor in the midst of it all, bent around an old guitar and strumming it with a focused intent usually reserved for piloting the TARDIS. He's playing a Fender Stratocaster of an obscure and vintage model, which Clara only knows because she lives with a walking musical encyclopaedia.

He's wearing glasses, which surprises her a little. They're serious, with thick frames, and have the effect of making him look a bit more distinguished, rather than the flailing alien he usually is. The glasses are rather at odds with the casual hoodie-like thing he's got on. Clara has a sudden vision of herself wearing it, thinks _that's absurd_ , and blushes for no reason at all.

Then she realizes that she's staring at him, which seems a bit rude. She clears her throat - loudly, so she's heard over the music - and he looks up. Adjusts the glasses, peers at her. Clara is suddenly very aware that she isn't wearing a bra. The shape of her breasts, her nipples, are clearly visible under her thin t-shirt.

She forces herself to say something, anything. "What were you working on?" she asks, sitting next to him. Or as close as she can get, what with all his miscellany everywhere.

"Project," he returns. Vague. Figures. He has moods like that. Clara is about to say something more - try a different tack - when he asks, "Had a rough go of it today?"  
"How'd you - ?"  
"You were blathering on about it, in the cave. I do listen to you sometimes, you know." He gives her that infuriating grin. "Now, there is one cure that I know of for situations like that - remarkably effective - I have it around here somewhere..."

He rifles about. Drops the guitar aside, ignores its noisy clang, and finally returns with a tiny flask. "So?" he asks, eyebrows and flask raised in a question.

Clara bites her lip, considering. She's not going to get sloshed with the Doctor, not when she's got teaching to do tomorrow.

A few shots of whisky later, Clara's got a buzzy feeling. She's not drunk. This feels like an important distinction. They've both sort of drifted to the floor now. And the Doctor's hand is on her breast - not resting, but actually cupped.

"Doctor - "  
He begins stroking her nipple with his thumb.  
" _Doctor_ ," she repeats, this time louder and more insistent.  
Only then does he seem to realize what he's doing and pulls away as if burned. He stares at her. He's still wearing those ridiculous glasses. Eyes magnified, like he can see into her soul. She feels practically naked.

"I - I should go," she says quickly. This is wrong. This is her roommate. She's not supposed to want this. So she hurries away, tucks herself safely back into her room. Tries not to remember the confused, almost sad, look on his face. Tells herself that she did the right thing.

***

The next morning she both does and doesn't want to remember what happened. Breakfast, good, that's a normal thing for roommates to do together. Coffee for him, eggs and toast for her. Park the TARDIS just far enough away from the school that she can walk, just like she's still living at her flat. A quick goodbye where he leans out of the doorway, still holding his coffee mug. He tells her that they're going to an icy planet so she should dress warm when she gets back.

_And after that?_ she wants to ask, nipples pricked in a weird anticipatory feeling.

Drifting, blowing snow. Mountain climbing. This isn't exactly what she signed up for, and she tells him this, hands on her hips, bouncing from foot to foot to keep herself warm. But the way he smiles at her is almost enough to make it worth it. This, oddly enough, is the part she did sign up for. The way he's all bravado but lets it crack in front of her. Only at rare moments, of course. Wouldn't want to drop the facade too often.

They return the medallion safely to its palace. Adventure over, Clara has never been so grateful to see the TARDIS. She follows him inside, stamps her boots, and stays out of the way while he makes them both hot whisky. Clara accepts it, and wonders distantly if this will repeat the ritual. The whatever-that-was of last night. For now, though, she lets the mix settle into and set fire to her bones. Everything becomes wider, brighter, even a little distorted. She's just so _happy_.

They get to talking, then, with a bit more freedom and intimacy. What her students are like. What he does, where he goes, while she's teaching. Both of them getting excited as they plan where to go next. The evening gets warped but also oddly clear as the hours go on, the way that nights do when it's much too late for normal people to be awake.

Of course, neither of them are normal people.

At one point Clara heads back to her room, changes into something more comfortable, and returns to find him eating jelly babies. "Tasty stuff," he says, holding out the bag. And they end up eating junk food while he plays the guitar. Both of them laughing about something that isn't particularly important.

She can tell herself it's just that it's late, or that it's the remnants of the whisky. That's the rational explanation, of course, for why he moves his guitar out of the way, why he pulls her into his lap. Why she responds by taking her shirt off, a swooping motion over her head. It's late. It's the whisky. No other reason for her suspended nervous feeling as he puts his hands on her breasts. He narrows his fingers around her nipples and twists, hard. She gives a little cry. A sudden mental image of that radio he had before he smashed it and made it into a clockwork squirrel. How aggressive he can be with his equipment. Am I equipment to him, then? she wonders. Twist, twist. Radio dial. Two weeks of "Mysterious Girl" by Peter Andre. She pants against his neck. All she can think to say is "I want," over and over. Twist - wet, radiating heat against - _oh, he must want this as much as I do._ "I want - " Wants him to feel it, projects as hard as she can so that psychic whatever shit he's got - so he'll know...She gasps into his neck, her hands tight at his shoulders. Twist again - she's gonna...no, she can't, he's her roommate, they travel together, this is just a hazy other world, it doesn't matter. Until she does come, sticky against where he's stiff inside his trousers. Still whimpering "I want" like a staticy FM signal she can't quite tune.

***

Breakfast the next morning is a bit awkward. Both of them at complete opposite ends of the kitchen. Him, absorbed in his coffee. Her, trying to pretend that eggs and toast soggy from overripe tomatoes makes for an excellent breakfast. Silence, except for the whirring of his coffee maker - a fancy one that probably costs more than Clara makes in a year, the bastard. Him and his obsession with _machines_.

So. They're just people who live together and touch each other sometimes. This is a thing, right? Clara knows it's a thing. She _wants_ it to be a thing. Wants it to be a thing over and over, in different positions, and - No. She's the rational one in their not-relationship, so she can put a stop to this. She should put a stop to this. She just doesn't know how. This isn't _Cosmo_ or _Glamour_ \- like, "12 Ways to Shock Him Into an Orgasm." There are no manuals for what to do when you start fooling around with your 2,000-year-old roommate.

At least her students are a bit better today. Tests, _Jane Eyre_ , literary symbolism, wash, rinse, repeat. It's easy stuff. Nothing she has to think about. She almost forgets - almost succeeds in making herself forget - what she has waiting for her after she closes and locks her classroom door, gathers her things.

"I've got - if you want to see - " he calls from somewhere in the depths of the TARDIS.  
"See what?" she asks.  
Over the intercom, voice fizzy with static. " _Tibi, non ante verso lene merum cado iamdudum apud me est; eripe te morae_."  
Clara mentally translates - she's not an English teacher for nothing - and thinks, _God, he can be so pretentious sometimes_.

What he's got is not really a wine cellar. It's more of a back room pantry sort of thing. Various liquids in various colours. Glasses of infinite size and shape, all of them haphazardly labelled. She doesn't see him at first, but hears a distant clink. He finally emerges with a bottle cradled in his hands. After blowing off the dust, he holds it out for her to see. "This was a gift from a group of lovely people. I think I rescued their leader from a volcano. It's almost as old as I am. Delicate stuff, yet with a potency that defies description."

Then he gives her a wink which might, in any other circumstances, be considered naughty. As it is, she feels a little illicit thrill as he pours two glasses. A pause to let it breathe. Clara watches him as he drinks, checks to see if anything's different. But it seems that, for now at least, nothing is. He tells her about the different alcohols he's collected. "When you've lived for this long, you pick up a few hobbies."

Something hits Clara in her heart. He's turned a bit away from her. The glasses he's wearing, the careful way he holds his wineglass, makes it seem that he could almost be a character plucked from some story she had to read once, long ago, in school. A character, instead of a lonely alien who has used this as one way to fill his life, and is using it as a way to connect with her.

***

The usual bland chatter of the other teachers as they bustle about making lunch. The clink of dishes, the beep of the microwave.

"Are you still living in your old flat? I never see you around the neighbourhood anymore."

"I moved," Clara responds. Picks at her lunch, wishes she'd brought something else. She's not trying to be rude, really, she's just...distracted. Her and the Doctor. The two of them, almost...together, if she'll let herself think that word. Together but not. At least whatever they're not doing, they're not doing it very well.

"Really? Where?"

"Ah - much farther away." The Doctor, showing her Saturn, guiding the TARDIS carefully through its rings.

"Got a roommate?"

They ask her what he's like and somehow Clara manages to stop her mouth from running off without her.

***

"We need to talk," Clara says firmly when she opens the TARDIS doors at the end of the day.  
The Doctor, opening cupboards and pawing through drawers. Doing the avoid-y thing that he's so frustratingly good at. Clara finally unplugs the device he's fiddling with and he looks up with an annoyed yelp. "Hey!" he protests.

"You can't just bring me on board and play with me like that. With the wine and the - " Clara makes a vague gesture she knows she's picked up from him. She'll get mad at herself for that later. Right now she's got more important things to worry about. "I'm not your toy, I'm not -" The metaphor slips from her mouth before she can stop it. "I'm not a radio."

He blinks at her owlishly. "You think...that I think of you as a radio?" Then he frowns and makes that same sad expression from all those nights ago when she left him behind. "Clara, do you know how afraid I am of losing you?"

"You haven't lost me, Doctor!" She's fully crying now but doesn't care. "I'm standing right here in front of you!" He reaches out and she slaps his hand away. Doesn't care, doesn't care, doesn't care. She retreats to her room. Curls herself up on the bed. Allows the TARDIS to turn the lights off and play her some angsty music.

Sometimes you just have to be a girl. A human girl.

An impasse. Clara may or may not have fallen asleep. Eventually she hears knocking and rouses herself, just a little. "Go away."  
"I - There's dinner. If you want." His voice is muffled by the door.  
Part of her wants to just let him suffer. Make him wait, eat alone. But she knows it's not in her nature to be that cruel - and besides, she is getting hungry.

She wanders down many wide and meandering hallways until the TARDIS eventually nudges her into a dining room. A dining room with mood lighting and jazz playing from hidden speakers. It could almost be construed as - what's the word. Romantic? That, except for the way the Doctor is holding himself so awkwardly.

"Do you remember the shrub planet I told you about?"  
Clara looks up from her dinner. He doesn't return her gaze - he's staring straight ahead at some point in the distance. Doesn't wait for her to respond, just keeps talking. She knows him well enough by now to pick up on the slight unsteadiness of his voice. He's trying very, very hard to continue, even though it sounds like each word is getting wrenched out of some hidden depth in his hearts.  
"They've got fruit there. It can be harvested for dessert wine. Very delicate affair, just because the atmosphere is so inhospitable. You have to wear a - a whatsit. A HazMat suit? So anyway, the process takes a long time, and..."

Clara glances from her glass to his face and back again. "Doctor?"  
"Yes?" He nearly drops his fork.  
"Did you make this wine?"  
He's still not looking at her when he answers, "I made it for you, actually. When you were in your room. It, er, involved opening a few temporal passageways and closing a few others, but. I hope it tastes all right."  
He went to the literal ends of the earth for her. Clara's ears ring with the truth of this. She doesn't really hear him - he's nattering on, still, something about "you are, we are..."

Until she jumps up from her seat and stops him with a kiss. He pulls away reluctantly. "I - that is - "

Words, again, seem to fail him, so he shows her instead. Leads her down the hall. Oh. His room. Clara isn't sure why she's surprised at that - he lives here, too, after all. It's his ship. A bed in the corner, which doesn't look like it's been used recently, if ever. There are round things on the walls, some of them beeping - collecting data, binary readouts. He waves a hand and they shut off.

Then he looks down at her. Another impasse. She flattens her right hand over his chest. Both his heartbeats are going strong under the thin cotton of his shirt - he's practically vibrating.

When it happens, it doesn't feel anything like what was described in the oh-god-harder-more-take-me-now romance novels she used to read as a teenager. Or the way it can sometimes be with human men: awkward shuffling, gone too soon. Rather, it's a stillness. Adjusting. The echo of both his hearts. And the way his cock sits inside her - there's a pulse, yes, but also a layer underneath that, something she can almost hear as well as feel. Like the ocean, like waves breaking on an empty shore. And a dull roar, perhaps, like a very windy beach. And she thinks, _he has an ocean inside him, and he's sharing it with me_. It's that ebb and flow of time that he always carries with him, and now it's slowly binding them together. He's showing her his mind. There's fear there, and two thousand years of isolation that's broken up by people, usually women, who come and go.

She moves herself closer to him and he gasps. "I'm here, all right?" She might be crying again. Both of them might be crying. She holds onto him, and for once, he holds her back. "And as long as I'm here, you have me."

**Author's Note:**

> The Doctor's quote is from Horace. Roughly translated: "For you, I've had at my home a long time now an unopened jar of gentle wine. Don't delay."


End file.
